


Easy Scrambling

by khorazir



Series: The Summer Boy [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 04, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring John, Caring Sherlock Holmes, Developing Relationship, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Folklore, GNU Terry Pratchett, Grief/Mourning, Grieving John, Hiking, Hurt/Comfort, Inexperienced Sherlock Holmes, Lake District, M/M, Nature, Not season/series 4 compliant, PTSD John, PTSD Sherlock, Past Torture, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Season/Series 03, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:27:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27975144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/pseuds/khorazir
Summary: According to a popular online dictionary, “scrambling” is a walk up steep terrain involving the use of one’s hands, with many easy scrambles becoming serious climbs in bad weather. The definition of easy scrambling varies greatly from one hillwalking guide – and indeed one person – to the next. For some, it’s a simple hike up and down a fell, for others it’s serious climbing bad weather or no. Sherlock’s and John’s fledgling relationship can be described in similarly vague terms: what should be an easy and straightforward progression towards greater intimacy turns out to be fraught with more difficulties than either anticipated, struggling with past hurt both physical and mental, and the inability to fully open up to their partner. A case in the Lake District brings things to a head as old wounds reopen, and unresolved issues make the two men scramble not just to return from the fells, but also to preserve and deepen their bond.
Relationships: Mary Morstan & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Summer Boy [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/799755
Comments: 18
Kudos: 56





	Easy Scrambling

**Author's Note:**

> This fic, the third and final in my _Summer Boy_ series, has been nagging me for four years when during a hike in the Lake District, the dreaded plot bunnies bit me. The fic is completely plotted (which is unusual for me), but writing may take a while due to RL and other fics in the pipeline, foremost the completion of my Tour de France AU _Slipstream_. While this story can probably be read on its own, I strongly recommend reading the other two installments in the series, _The Summer Boy_ and _Underground Rescue_ first. Also, please heed the tags. This fic will have a happy ending, but will deal with somewhat darker themes than most of my other stories, mostly concerning Sherlock’s time in Serbia.
> 
> A big thank you, as usual, goes to my faithful beta rifleman_s.

**Fairfield, Lake District, late October 2016**

_“From the south [Fairfield] appears as a great horseshoe of grassy slopes below a consistently high skyline [...] but lacking those dramatic qualities that appeal most to the lover of hills. But on the north side the Fairfield range is magnificent: here are dark precipices, long fans of scree [...] desolate combes and deep valleys.”_

Alfred Wainwright, _A Pictorial Guide to the Lakeland Fells – Book One: The Eastern Fells_

The wind has picked up, tearing the heavy fog into rags that swirl around Sherlock. It claws at his lank, wet curls, finding every little gap in his scarf to bite at the exposed, sweaty skin of his throat. His ears are freezing, his cheeks feel numb as he reaches up with shaking hands to adjust the scarf. Moisture has beaded on the wool. Some cold droplets find their way down his neck. He shivers and curses under his breath. He wishes he’d listened to John and brought a hat. Right now, even the bloody deerstalker would actually be rather good, but he’d take almost anything to keep his head warm. The hood of his anorak is useless. It reaches too far into his face when pulled tight against the wind, limiting his field of vision and making him feel tied up, the movement of his head restrained uncomfortably. He hates not being able to see and hear everything around him, to have his senses compromised.

Not that there is anything to see. All around him, dense fog reigns. Sherlock is lost in a grey soup, the droplets so thick they almost feel like drizzle. Perhaps they are drizzle. He is caught in the middle of a cloud, and even the cold wind doesn’t help much to move it, only creating lighter and darker spots as though tattered sheets of tracing paper are moved around. Occasionally, swirls of fog shift aside to briefly reveal a rocky ground – _volcanoclastic sandstone_ – shaped by the elements so that it almost looks like slate, adorned with lichens and here and there with sheep droppings and short turf.

To his left, a dark shape looms, almost of Sherlock’s height but broader. Sherlock has already been to inspect it. It’s another cairn of rocks, meant to guide hikers and fell-ramblers to the highest point of Fairfield. But it’s not the only cairn around here, and that’s the problem. Fairfield has a broad, flat summit, almost like a plateau. At least that’s how it looked on the internet when Sherlock researched the mountain and searched for images of the vicinity, finding plenty that were taken on Fairfield during clear, sunny weather. Unfortunately, he did not count the cairns and took note how many there were on their route of ascent, nor did he download the images to his mobile phone. Trying to access the sites now is useless. There hasn’t been any signal ever since they left Rydal Mount and began their climb via three other fells: Nab Scar, Heron Pike and Great Rigg.

During the ascent when the summit was still almost cloud-free, occasional bright rays of sunlight flashed over the rocky slopes with their thin layer of short grass like beams from a torch. Views were good all around. Sherlock and John caught glimpses of Helvellyn, Seat Sandal and Dollywaggon Pike to the north-west, and even of Scafell Pike far to the south-west. But the higher they climbed, the denser the clouds got, until, when the path became flatter and broader and the first large cairn came into sight, fog surrounded them on every side, cutting off the view of whence they’d come, down to Rydal Water and further on, the town of Ambleside and Lake Windermere. They continued on nevertheless. Or rather, John did.

Sherlock stood for a moment to catch his breath, turning for a view of the last fell they climbed through the mist, and of the raven that flew by croaking sharply. When he was able to breathe again, and the stinging pain from the bullet wound in his chest had subsided somewhat, turning, he found John gone. The fog had swallowed him. Sherlock bit on his tongue when instinctively, he opened his mouth to call. John would chide him again, as he had throughout the hike, criticising Sherlock’s outfit, the lack of food and drink and warm clothing in his rucksack, his reliance on an online map app instead of a proper Ordnance Survey one – the app being useless now, of course, because of the lack of mobile reception on the fells – the general idiocy of starting out on this hike in the early afternoon with an uncertain weather forecast and the chance of getting caught in either rain or darkness on their descent. All of this on top of their already strained relationship at the moment. Sherlock absolutely didn’t want to give him yet another reason to be cross with him by getting himself lost in the bloody fog on bloody Fairfield like a total idiot. He’d just carry on and find him. How hard could it be to just follow the path from one cairn to the next to the bloody summit, where hopefully, John would wait?

As it turns out, it’s surprisingly, worryingly difficult. Because fact is that Sherlock is lost. He did move from cairn to cairn, but there are too many. On the sparse, rocky ground, no clear path can be seen and no footsteps to follow, even when the fog lifts long enough to allow more detailed glimpses of Sherlock’s surroundings. There _are_ paths, but were they made by walkers or sheep? And the cairns don’t just progress in a straight line. There are some to both sides, too. Which way to follow? Which cairn is the actual summit? Had they even decided on what to do once they’d reached it? From studying the route, Sherlock knows that to the north and west, Fairfield drops sharply in a series of cliffs and crags. They were going to stay away from this area. There is a descent to Grisedale, Sherlock knows, and also to Dovedale where the body of the fell runner whose death they’ve been investigating had been found. But which of the many paths is the right one to get there? And didn’t John object to descending all the way to either valley, given that they’d be on the wrong side of the fell then and miles away from their hired car and accommodation? Sherlock wanted to investigate the cave in the northern cliffs of Dove Crag, near the foot of which the fell runner had lain. Again, John had argued against it. Apparently, reaching the cave involves a bit of scrambling, which is dangerous in wet and misty conditions. Sherlock has deleted why they set out to Dove Crag via Fairfield in the first place instead of driving to Dovedale and hiking up from there. There’d been something about the Kirkstone Pass which they would have come through being closed which would have meant a long detour by car, but he doesn’t remember clearly. Moreover, it’s not important now. He’s stuck on this dratted fell in the fog.

Taking a deep breath and swallowing his pride, he calls out. His voice is hoarse and is immediately swallowed by the wind. He calls again, louder, trying to project his voice against the elements. He listens carefully, but there’s no reply. _And you made fun of John when he packed a whistle. It’d be of good use now._ He tries whistling on his fingers, but they’re cold and clammy and the sound doesn’t carry. Sherlock walks on towards the closest dark shape.

He curses when he passes another cairn – one that looks dreadfully familiar. He remembers the white stone somebody placed there. Has he been walking in circles all this time? It’s not impossible. People tend to do so because of one of their legs being dominant and making slightly larger strides. He blows on his fingers, rams his hands into the pockets of his anorak where his right one encounters his phone. He gets it out, wipes fine droplets of mist from the display and wakes it. No signal, still. No message from John, subsequently.

The sound of a rock rolling down the hillside makes Sherlock jump and almost drop the phone. The wind is stronger now, howling and whistling around the cairns. It almost sounds like a choir of uncanny voices. Instead of dispersing the damned fog, it’s bringing more and even denser clouds from the north-west – or from what Sherlock assumes the north-west to be. He can barely see his own feet now. It seems to have got darker, too, despite it only being half past four. His heart is hammering in his chest. The rock ... somebody or something must have tread it loose. John? A sheep? Which direction did it come from? The fog seems to carry and distort sound in a weird way. This sound, just now, was this another rock sliding, or a foot grating on scree on the rough ground. Was it a hoarse voice calling? Was it the raven again, croaking forlornly, or a lamb bleating for its mother? Or was it just the howl of the wind again? Or was the voice in Sherlock’s own head?

Sherlock hates it more and more, the way the elements ensnare and befuddle his senses. He can’t seem to rely on his eyes and ears and sense of direction anymore. The latter has rarely failed him back in London, where he could find his way back to Baker Street even in the densest fog. But here there is nothing to go by here apart from the dratted cairns, and they all look similar. And there is something else, something ... lurking in the fog. He can feel it. It’s looming closer and closer, an insubstantial and yet very real, almost tangible dread.

He is suddenly reminded of Dewer’s Hollow, of the heart-stopping horror he’d felt after being dosed with the gas, the way it had distorted his perception of reality so profoundly to convince him an ordinary dog was a monster. Everything he’d believed about his reliance on the proper functioning of his senses had been put on its head by the substance. Sherlock wouldn’t have believed it possible, even after years of occasional cocaine use. No even this potent drug had ever messed with his head enough to made him see monsters. And now ... the cold dread that appears to be seeping into him like the fog engulfing the mountains can’t be explained by natural laws.

 _Because there are no monsters, idiot_. _Concentrate. There is no gas here, just ordinary fog. Calm down. Think. Think, damn you. Find a sheltered spot out of the wind and get your bearings. Your phone, it has a compass app that should function even without internet connection. Use it. You weren’t a total moron when preparing this climb. John may have the proper map, but you made screenshots of the OS online maps relevant to this mountain. Get a move on, now._

Another gust of wind tears at him, chilling him to his bones. He shivers, his teeth clattering as he tries to calm his breathing which has become elevated. He is almost panting, the wind making it difficult to breathe. His heart is racing. His body is swimming in adrenaline, despite the cold he has begun to sweat. He recognises the signs. _Panic attack. Shit. Not now, I can’t afford to have one now._ The last time this happened, he was caught in the pitch dark in an abandoned London Underground Station with the body of a murdered woman next to him, he himself concussed after a blow to his head and suffering from a fractured wrist. He remembers the fear of discovery by those who’d previously attacked him, of sprinting up a seemingly endless spiral staircase in the dark with his pursuers and his own fear hot on his heels, their hasty footsteps scraping on rough ground bringing up even darker memories, namely those of his imprisonment and torture in a Serbian bunker during his time ... away.

_Don’t go there, don’t you dare bloody go there now. It won’t help, it’ll only make things worse. Calm down. Breathe. Turn your back to the wind, hood up, and breathe. In. Out. In. Out. That’s it. Concentrate. Get your bearings. Check the direction of the wind with the compass. Bloody phone won’t unlock because your fingers are shaking so much. Okay, find shelter from the wind._

Stumbling, he makes his way what he hopes is back to the cairn with the white stone. He almost sobs with relief when suddenly, it looms up before him. Hunkering down on the leeward side, he gets out his phone again, unlocks it, lets out a shaky breath when the compass app comes up. He holds it into the direction of the wind and nods grimly when it indicates north-west. _Not totally lost, then,_ he thinks, but then frowns when he notices that his phone’s battery is at only forty percent. He switches it into flight mode before bringing up the screenshots stored on the device. One is a picture of Fairfield’s summit plateau on a clear, sunny day. Sherlock tries to count the cairns, but the photo is too small and the resolution too bad. He does, however, recognise a larger structure made of stone. It looks like a stretch of dry-stone wall, a sheepfold or the like. It’s not marked on the map but appears to be near what must be the summit, as this is where several people have congregated on the photo.

Sherlock returns the phone to his pocket, rubs his hands to warm his fingers, and tries to whistle again. He calls out for John, too, but again receives no answer. Worry gnaws at him. Is John okay? The sound of the rolling stone ... he hasn’t fallen down on the crags, has he? He’d be looking for Sherlock by now, wouldn’t he? Unless ...

Securing the hood more closely around his face and readjusting his scarf, Sherlock stands again and faces the wind. If he continues on in that direction, he should reach the summit and the sheepfold, which should offer more shelter from the elements. Fervently, he hopes that John has had the same idea and that he’ll meet him there. If not ... Sherlock doesn’t want to think about it. John can’t be that cross with him that he’d abandon him in the fog on a Lake District fell in October when there’s a good chance of damage from exposure. _And he’s fine, he’s fine, you hear. He’s serious about this hiking business. He’d be careful. He’d ..._

Unbidden, another memory makes its way up from the utter depths of Sherlock’s conscious. He’s been lost in the fog before, almost three decades ago in a storm-destroyed tree circle on the South Downs, looking for a friend of whom he doesn’t even know whether he was real. He remembers crying himself hoarse, weeping hot, desperate tears about the destruction of his beloved trees and the absence of his friend, to then curl up on the cold, wet ground and lie there until exhaustion overcame him. His father and some villagers found him just in time, saving him from dying of hypothermia. Nevertheless, he’d spent weeks battling pneumonia and high fever and didn’t return to the ring of trees until this summer accompanied by John as they were looking for another seemingly lost child.

 _It’s not like that now,_ he tells himself sternly. _You’re a grown man, no longer a lonely boy. And John, your best friend and love of your life, is real. He is here, somewhere, and you will find him again. But Jan was real, too,_ puts in another voice. _He was as real to you back then as John is now. And you never found him again._

Sherlock shakes his head firmly to get rid of these intrusive, unhelpful thoughts. He’s survived worse, far worse. He’s been through rehab, been tortured and shot. He’s been away from all he holds dear for two years, suffering heartbreak to a degree he never thought possible. Fairfield will claim neither him nor John. He will see John again, and they’ll talk and make peace. He’ll even admit that he’s been wrong and should have listened to his partner in the first place.

Ducking his head against the wind, he sets out to find the shelter.

([Illustration](http://anke.edoras-art.de/images/sherlock_fanfic/easy_scrambling/sherlock_easy-scrambling_chapter1_1.jpg))

**– <o>–**

**Baker Street, London, four days earlier**

“What happened to his bones? He looks like he’s just skin and hair.”

Sherlock gazes at the eleven-year-old girl sitting next to him as she stares at the screen of his laptop in rapt fascination, the half-eaten scone in her hand forgotten. It’s the second time Tiffany, his cousin’s daughter, has been staying at Baker Street for a day. It’s half term. Her mother is at a job-related meeting and her father is working in the city. Her parents have recently separated with Sherlock’s cousin Daniel moving to London and Tiffany staying with her mother in Sussex. Even though Sherlock will probably never be best friends with Daniel – back when they were both children, he was a relentless bully and Sherlock one of his favourite victims – Tiffany’s ‘disappearance’ during the summer which prompted her parents to contact Sherlock for support, and Sherlock and John’s success at finding her, as well as some honest talks have repaired their strained relationship to a degree that they correspond occasionally, mostly about Tiffany.

The girl, who in many ways reminds Sherlock of himself as a child, mostly because of her status as an outsider with somewhat unusual interests, has taken a liking to Sherlock and John, repeatedly begging her parents if she could visit them in London. Her first longer visit took place about two months ago, shortly after Sherlock’s run-in with a bunch of criminals who kidnapped him and left him injured in the depths of a disused Tube station, with PTSD rearing its ugly head. The days that followed the event were marked by battling John over being allowed to work on the case (a smuggling and counterfeiting network run by one of the new owners of the Underground Station) and enduring periods of rest to allow for Sherlock’s physical recovery. John tried to make him attend therapy to deal with his PTSD, but Sherlock refused. The matter is still contentious between them, as are several others – things they don’t talk about yet should. But somehow, the time never seemed right with John busy at his surgery, Sherlock with cases (the case of the Tube station gang alone kept him occupied for weeks), and both with their own issues. They have got better at communicating – a little, not much, and certainly not enough. But it’s such hard work that most of the time, they stay away from honestly tackling their issues. They simply do what they’ve always done: keeping a stiff upper lip about their problems and ignoring them over cases, banter, shared takeaway and crap telly.

Entertaining Tiffany by taking her to the Natural History Museum back when she first visited, while her father dashed from looking at one potential new home for himself to the next, was a welcome break and distraction – for John even more than Sherlock. Things had grown tense between them due to the case, John’s huge workload at the clinic, Sherlock’s healing injuries (mostly his wrist which of course needed a cast and not just a splint because, according to John, Sherlock is an idiot who doesn’t heed his doctors’ warnings, thus putting his dominant hand out of commission for what felt like ages) and the still unresolved issue of John’s disappeared ex-wife and infant daughter and John’s feelings of guilt and inadequacy about this entire situation (which wasn’t his fault).

In contrast, looking after Tiffany, who is bright and inquisitive and a bit weird even by Sherlock’s standards – delightfully so – is wonderful. It takes Sherlock’s mind off the tensions between John and him, tensions Sherlock knows he bears some guilt for without knowing how to solve them. He often wishes he’d had more experience with relationships than mere theoretical knowledge, things he’s read in books or in help forums on the internet. He loves John deeply, knows the feeling is mutual. At least they managed to sort this out recently. He wants to make John happy and not be a bother, but more often than not, he doesn’t know how, and says and does things he later realises hurt John. And John, despite having more of a past in terms of (failed) relationships than Sherlock, doesn’t seem to be faring any better.

“That’s a very astute observation, Tiffany,” says Sherlock, clicking on the next image that shows the remains of Lindow Man, an Iron Age bog body discovered in the 1980s, in greater detail. “The acidic conditions in the peat bog he was originally thrown into drew calcium from his bones and effectively turned them into soft tissue. That’s why only his skin and hair seem to have been preserved. The bones are still there and show up on x-rays, but they have lost their rigidity. Some of his teeth were found, too, even showing small fissures that indicate that he was bludgeoned which smashed his jaws together and broke some of his teeth.”

Tiffany nods, her eyes wide with fascination. “Did that kill him?” she asks.

Sherlock smiles fondly. At her age, he was equally intrigued by the subject. What’s more, he has retained his childhood fascination with preserved bodies into adulthood.

“There is evidence it didn’t,” he replies. “He lost consciousness, certainly, but studies of his skin under the microscope revealed swellings that indicate he lived for a while.”

“Did he drown, then, from when they threw him into the bog?”

“No. He was strangled with a thin cord that also broke his neck. And he was stabbed, too.”

“Wow, they really wanted to kill him, didn’t they?” remarks Tiffany, staring with rapt interest at the image of the leathery, sunken face of the Iron Age man.

“Scientists believe that these multiple killings were part of a ritual. This kind of ‘overkill’ suggests that many of the bodies found in bogs were human sacrifices. Sometimes, prisoners of war or criminals were executed and thrown into bogs as punishment or to pacify certain gods. But others went voluntarily, or so their bodies suggest.”

“How can we know all this now? How do people find out all these things?” Tiffany wants to know. Sherlock smiles, pleased by her genuine interest.

“Some people were found with the contents of their stomachs still intact. Their analysis revealed seeds from plants that release hallucinogenic substances when ingested, suggesting that the people were drugged. Some, such as the man found in Tollund in Denmark, had been given a filling meal before they died or were killed. It might have been an honour to die for their community, to please their gods and bring about a good harvest or victory over their enemies.”

Tiffany nods, her eyes still glued to the screen. “It’s amazing that they can still find out all these things, even after so many years. Imagine this man stuck in the peat for two thousand years and then some worker finds him by accident, and then these scientists can tell what his last meal was and how he died. That’s brilliant.”

“It’s archaeology combined with forensics,” says Sherlock, smiling. “It’s a bit like modern police work.” He remembers when as a child, he first heard about the discovery of a bog body on Lindow Moss, Berkshire in 1984, shocking his parents with his somewhat morbid curiosity that seemed a little unusual for a seven-year-old. “In the case of Lindow Man and the place where he was found, a real, more recent murder was solved as well with the help of the peat cutters.”

“Wow, really? What happened?”

“A year before Lindow Man was found, they discovered a round object in one of their machines. They first thought it might be a dinosaur egg, but it turned out to be the half-decayed head of a woman. About twenty years earlier, in 1960, a woman had vanished and had reportedly been murdered by her husband, who had boasted about having killed her and buried her in their garden. But since no body had ever been found, he hadn’t been convicted. Their garden had bordered on the Moss, and so when the head turned up, people assumed it was that of the murdered woman. The husband, who was already in prison for some other crime at the time, confessed, and was convicted of the murder based on the confession.”

“And was the head that of the murdered woman?”

“No. Radiocarbon dating revealed her to be from the third century AD.”

Tiffany laughs. “So the murderer was tricked. Cool.”

“Indeed.”

Tiffany stares at the screen, obviously thinking about something. Eventually, she nods to herself. “Isn’t this what you do, too, when you solve murders and crimes for the police and other people?” she enquires.

“What, tricking murderers and other criminals into confessing?”

“Yes. I read about some of your cases on John’s blog – by the way, he really is totally in love with you, isn’t he?”

Sherlock feels himself blush as something fluttery and alive moves in his stomach area at the mention of John’s name. “What makes you think so?” He glances at Tiffany from the corner of his eye, then quickly back at the screen.

She gives him a beady look that makes her seem much older than her eleven years. “Honestly, Sherlock. The way he writes about you. Like you’re some kind of superhero.” She holds up a hand with thumb and index finger almost touching. “He’s this far away from using heart smileys around your name.”

Sherlock huffs and smiles, feeling all warm inside. Yes, John loves him. Despite their unresolved issues, this much is clear and – by now – uncontested. They’re still in the early stages of a relationship – _no, that’s not true_ , Sherlock corrects himself. They have been in a relationship for some time, several years, in fact. Only, as he informed his brother when Mycroft alluded to the somewhat altered state of said relationship, the kissing is new. And it truly still is to Sherlock who before John had never kissed anybody he truly loved. Kissing is new and exciting and frightening and exhilarating and wonderful and addictive and utterly scary. They haven’t advanced beyond kissing and the odd shared bed yet. Sherlock is still caught between satisfying his raging curiosity what sex with John (and partnered sex in general) might be like, and his deep fear of messing up, disappointing John, and moreover surrendering the cherished control of his mind by submitting to the demands of his body. He is deeply grateful for John’s patience. John truly honours his promise of advancing things in the physical intimacy department at a pace set by Sherlock, and he doesn’t seem to mind that this pace is ... well ... glacial.

“The feeling is mutual,” Sherlock tells Tiffany. “I love him, too.”

Tiffany nods, finally finishing her scone and washing it down with a huge swallow of cocoa. “Just don’t make the mistake and get married. Because if you don’t, you can’t get divorced later, see. It’s such a bother, getting divorced.”

Sherlock understands she is talking about her parents. “I’m not sure John would like to get married again.”

“Because his wife and child died?”

Sherlock has to bite his tongue to not reveal the truth. Mary and her and John’s daughter are still alive, a fact that is being kept secret for their own safety. For the world at large, they have perished. “Yes. He is still sad about it occasionally, especially about the child.”

“Well, I can be his daughter from time to time,” suggests Tiffany seriously. “When he wants to do dad things like reading to me and going to museums and buying me ice-cream and books and stuff. I wouldn’t mind this at all.”

Sherlock laughs. “I’ll suggest it to him – although you do already have a father.”

Tiffany shrugs. “Two are better than one. And with dad having moved out now ...,” she swallows.

“You’re sad about that?”

“Of course I’m sad. And angry, too, because he was so stupid and had this affair with the other woman. Why do people do these things?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.”

“You’ve never had an affair, then?”

Sherlock almost bursts out laughing. “No. Affairs, relationships ... not my area – unless they turn out to be crimes, of course.”

Tiffany looks at him shrewdly. “Is John your first boyfriend?”

His face flames again. He’s embarrassed by his reaction. There’s shouldn’t be anything odd about his lack of intimate partners. He’s just not wired that way, never has been. There always were more interesting things to attend to than throw himself at the mercy of his peers at school or university. They hated him, anyway. Even befriending them was almost impossible. “What makes you think that?”

“I read about you and that woman in the papers, when she claimed you’d had all that sex. It sounded strange. Like one of those shows Ellie watches on the telly. All those soaps.”

“Oh, that was Janine, the woman in the papers. She made it all up because she was very angry with me at the time. I hadn’t treated her very nicely and lied about a few things. So she sold some scandalous yet fake stories to the tabloids and made a lot of money. We’re something like friends now.”

“I figured out that much. Good for her for taking revenge. See, I figured out all this was fake. Because back in summer when you came to our place, you were so funny around each other, you and John. Always looking and then looking away and going red in the face. You and John are so sweet together, and so very careful. Like holding hands under the table when we were having breakfast the next morning, after daddy made you stay in the room with the one bed. That’s why I thought he might be your first boyfriend.”

Sherlock nods and smiles appreciatively. “Good deduction.”

Tiffany beams before her expression turns serious again. “A girl in my class, Alice, said that if you haven’t had a boyfriend by the age of twelve you might as well be dead.”

Sherlock frowns. Is this what kids talk about nowadays? School must be even more hellish than when he was a boy. “That’s utter rubbish.”

“That’s what I told her, too. And now I can prove that I know people who haven’t had any boyfriends or girlfriends until they were grown-ups.”

“Some people never have partners, and that’s fine, too. But for John, I wouldn’t have bothered either, I think. And even with him it took me years to admit to myself that I had fallen in love with him. He needed even longer.”

Tiffany gazes at him, her head cocked thoughtfully. “You are a bit strange, aren’t you? You even look strange, with your eyes and the odd shape of your face. And you can do all those deductions, because you’re really smart.” Her eyes light up and she nods to herself as if she has just had a major revelation. “You know, I think you are a witch.”

Taken aback slightly by her directness, which almost feels like having his own focus and deductive powers used on himself, “What makes you think so?” Sherlock enquires. “Because I waited until adulthood to embark on a romantic relationship?”

She shrugs. “Yes. That’s a bit unusual. But cool. I don’t want a boyfriend next year either, just because I’m turning twelve then. No, it’s because you wear this huge dark coat like a witch’s black dress. And you have a special hat. And you can do mind things. Deductions, you know. And you help people. You solve these crimes and sometimes, the criminals go to prison. But even if they don’t, you help people by telling them what really happened. Daddy showed me some of your cases in the newspapers, and as I said, I read John’s blog. Sometimes, it’s described there that you made people cry by being so rude. But that’s what witches do, too, don’t they? Like Granny Weatherwax. She is rude, too, or that’s what people think, because she tells them how things are and doesn’t lie to them. And sometimes, the truth hurts, but in a good way. So in fact you’re not really rude, but honest. And because you’re so smart, and many people are a bit dumb, they think you’re rude and nasty, even when you help them. Daddy said this is why you didn’t have friends when you were a boy.”

Sherlock swallows. The memories of his struggles with bullying and loneliness as a child and adolescent still smart, even after three decades. “Well, your father didn’t exactly go out of his way to befriend me or make me feel comfortable – quite the opposite, really.”

Tiffany nods sagely. “Yes, I know. He locked you up in the wardrobe, and he and uncle Christopher and their friends did all those nasty things to you. But I think he is sorry now.” She looks up at Sherlock, winks and grins. “And he’s afraid of you, because you’re a witch.”

Sherlock grins, too. “I can live with that. Would you like to be a witch as well?”

“Definitely. I’ve already got a dark blue dress and sensible boots like Tiffany in the books. And I’m learning how to make cheese. Ellie is teaching me. Can we look at some more of these bog people now? And Ötzi. I’d like to know more about Ötzi.”

**– <o>–**

The spend another hour going through several books Sherlock owns on the subject of mummies and other preserved bodies. Tiffany is delightful company. She asks all the right questions, isn’t put off by grisly images or descriptions, and seems fascinated by and truly interested in the science behind the preservation and decomposition of bodies. Sherlock is explaining the chemistry of a body found in a Swedish copper mine in the early 18th century – _preserved by ‘vitriol’ (copper (II) sulphate), pity it wasn’t documented properly at the time, would have loved to learn more about it and actually see pictures of the body_ – when, “Someone is coming,” says Tiffany suddenly. Sherlock listens to the key in the lock downstairs followed by slow, heavy footsteps. “Hope it’s not dad already,” she goes on. “I’d like to stay longer.”

Sherlock shakes his head and smiles. “It’s John.”

Tiffany’s face lights up. She adores John. The affection is mutual, Sherlock knows, despite John’s always being tinged with a touch of sadness.

Sherlock believes that is because every time John sees Tiffany, he is reminded of his own daughter whom he managed to see and hold just once, shortly after she was born, before she and her mother were ‘vanished’ for their own protection – or that, at least, is how Mycroft explained it: some witness protection scheme because of Mary’s connections with Moriarty’s network, branches of which still exist, as well as her ties to other less than friendly organisations. John rarely talks about Mary or his child, the name of whom he doesn’t know. There is an envelope hidden somewhere in his room upstairs, an envelope provided by Mycroft on Sherlock’s behest. Not even Sherlock knows where it is now, despite searching several times – bit not good, that ... yes, he is aware. He just wanted to see whether John had opened it and gone through its contents. Sherlock is not entirely certain what they are. They may, however, provide the information John craves, namely about his child’s new identity. But if John _has_ opened the envelope in private, he hasn’t let on what he found inside. Sherlock has no clue, hasn’t been able to coax anything out of John, nor has he been able to deduce John’s actions. John has been tense and tetchy lately, clearly stressed and overworked but in no mood to talk. It was a relief to both of them when Sherlock’s dratted cast came off and he was able to use both hands again instead of having to rely on help for some activities.

Throughout the past month, Sherlock has tried to be considerate, to keep his complaining and demand for John’s assistance and attention at a minimum. He failed more often than not, of course. While they spent some nights sharing Sherlock’s bed in the immediate aftermath of his abduction, it soon became clear that each of them needed more space, and so they returned to separate rooms for most nights. For a while, probably because of his lack of experience with relationships, Sherlock feared that their fledgling romance had been nipped in the bud. He worried and fretted terribly before forcing himself to confront John about it. John’s reaction assuaged some of his fears. No, John was not fed up with him already. He still loved him and still wanted to be in a relationship. Yes, kissing was still on the agenda, as well as anything else Sherlock felt happy to try in the realm of physical intimacy. Yes, they were still good, things were just a bit awkward and tense at the moment. John tried to blame this on his job (which, however, he isn’t willing to completely give up), the intricacies of the Tube gang case, and mostly his general worry about the state of the country due to impending Brexit and, worse, the upcoming presidential election in the USA. Sherlock doesn’t usually care about politics, but even he knows that one of the American candidates, should he be elected into office, would be a disaster not just for the US but the entire world. During one of his frequent visits in the past month, a stressed and irritable Mycroft tried to explain what is at stake this way: “You once said you hated bullies, Sherlock – and actually shot one to protect your friends. Now imagine one of the biggest bullies in the world – and a total moron on top of that – getting access to nuclear weapons. That’s what’s at stake here.”

Sherlock hears John sigh as he reaches the landing. Tired, then. Hungry, and thirsty, too. Cycled to work and had to battle a strong headwind and some reckless, inconsiderate drivers on his way back.

“Hello John,” he calls. “Tiffany is here. We have scones. The tea should still be warm.”

“Thank God for that,” says John dryly as he steps into the living room. He has left jacket and helmet downstairs. His cheeks are flushed, and his hair is tousled from running a hand through it after taking off the helmet. Some strands are curling in his nape from where he sweated under the helmet. Sherlock loves these small curls, feeling a sudden urge to touch them. This surprises him. He likes touching John on occasion, likes to study his reactions and to see evidence of John’s affection for him in letting him do this. But this urge is new. It warrants closer inspection.

“Hello Tiffany, hey Sherlock,” John greets them as he bends down to untie the reflector band on his lower leg. “What are you two doing?”

“We’re looking at bog bodies and mummies and all kinds of dead people,” replies Tiffany brightly. “Come, sit with us. Sherlock has just explained the colour pigments in Ötzi’s tattoos to me. He’s so smart and clever.”

Sherlock feels his cheeks heat again, both from Tiffany’s compliment and even more from the warm smile that spreads over John’s tired face. “Yes, that he is. And you’re pretty smart, too, for actually understanding what he says.” He winks at Tiffany who preens. “Let me just wash my hands and get myself some tea and a scone, and then I’ll join you.”

John has barely sat down and begun an account of a curious case of poisoning he encountered at work when the doorbell rings. Tiffany heaves a big sigh. “I don’t want to leave already,” she complains when Sherlock rises from the sofa to go and open the front door, crossing her arms in front of her. “Tell daddy I want to stay here.”

“I’m not sure he will budge on this. It’s almost dark outside, and you have a bit of a drive ahead of you to get back to Sussex – during rush hour, what’s more.”

Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson has already opened the front door and is chatting with Daniel Warrington, Tiffany’s father. “She is such a bright, lovely girl,” says Mrs. Hudson. “And she has really taking a liking to Sherlock and John, and they to her.”

Daniel nods, frowning a little as though he finds this hard to believe. “Yes, that’s true. After her first visit, coming back to Baker Street as soon as possible was one of her dearest wishes. Hello, Sherlock.”

As usual, the greeting isn’t over cordial, which is fine with Sherlock. He doesn’t want to be best friends with his cousin. Old resentments still linger, and probably always will. But Daniel has been making an effort to be civil lately for the sake of his daughter, and so has Sherlock.

Sherlock inclines his head. “Daniel. Tiffany wants to stay, of course, but it’s plain to see that you’re in a hurry.”

Daniel raises an eyebrow. “Plain to see?”

“Do you really want me to explain my deduction?” Daniel shakes his head. “Thought so. Come on up. She’ll be ready in a short while.”

Tiffany makes her father stay for almost twenty minutes, taking him by the hand and showing him round the living room while explaining several of the items stored on the shelves or hanging on the walls. Sherlock watches it smirking faintly to himself. Daniel will definitely get a hefty parking ticket.

“And this is Billy the Skull,” says Tiffany as they come to stand in front of the fireplace. “He’s a real skull. Today, we looked at pictures of a bog man whose skull had turned to jelly or something because of the” – she gazes at Sherlock – “acidic conditions in the bog which drew calcium from his bones,” she explains carefully,” beaming when Sherlock nods approvingly.

Daniel turns to him and frowns. “You showed her pictures of dead people? Don’t you think that’s a bit much for a girl her age.”

“She insisted,” returns Sherlock. “And most of them were ancient. The remains of Lindow Man can even be viewed at the British Museum. Also, I don’t see how her being a girl has anything to do with it.”

“Don’t be like this, daddy. They were brilliant, the bodies. Next time I’m here, I want to go and see Lindow Man and the mummies at the British Museum. And go that collection with all the people bits in jars and glasses Sherlock told me about.”

“The what?” Daniel looks from Tiffany to Sherlock with disapproval

“The Hunterian Collection,” explains John, stepping forward to come to stand at Sherlock’s side. “It’s fine, Daniel, don’t worry. I went there as a kid, too, and it didn’t scar me for life. Quite the contrary, really. It made me want to become a doctor.”

“Oh. Well, in that case ...,” Daniel still doesn’t look convinced, but somewhat mollified. Whatever can be said about the man, he dotes on his daughter and has embraced her peculiarities more readily than Sherlock anticipated, given his cousin’s track record with social outsiders. _Perhaps he really has learned his lesson,_ muses Sherlock, _and is trying to atone for years of bullying strange, awkward children like myself._

“Well, Tiffany, we have to be off now. Your mum is waiting. She just texted me. Also, while I’m back ho— ... in Washington, she wants me to have a look at Ellie’s WiFi. Apparently, it’s not working the way it should, and you know she needs it for her work.”

“Oh,” says John, “has she taken up her Agony Aunt business again?”

Sherlock smiles. He has a soft spot for Tiffany’s elderly neighbour, a kind, curious woman who helped him when he was fleeing from his bullies thirty years ago. Back then, Ellie had made a living doling out life advice for people writing to her, typing up countless letters on her old typewriter to help strangers with their problems, often in frank terms without sugar-coating. After the case of the vanished Tiffany in the summer, her parents had bought Ellie a laptop and installed internet, enabling the octogenarian to revive her counselling business with renewed fervour, even setting up a blog. Sherlock is convinced that by Tiffany’s definition, Ellie is definitely a witch.

“Yes,” he replies to John. “And it’s booming, apparently. Give our regards to her, Tiffany.”

“Okay.” She sighs, beginning to collect her belongings and stowing them in her rucksack – mostly books and drawing utensils. “But next time, I’d like to stay longer.”

**– <o>–**

When Sherlock returns to the living room after escorting Tiffany and her father to the door (grinning to himself when Daniel collects the parking ticket from the windshield of his car), he finds John sunk onto the sofa, his head leaning back against the cushions with his arms spread out, his eyes closed. Stopping in the doorway, Sherlock watches him, taking in his tousled hair – almost entirely turned to silver now with only few blond strands left – the bags under his eyes and his lined face. He looks beautiful. And utterly exhausted.

John stirs when Sherlock takes a step into the room and opens his eyes just far enough to follow his movements. “Hey,” he says softly. “Sorry for spreading out like this. I’m totally knackered. Didn’t want to drop down in front of Tiffany, but I’m really done in today.”

“Stressful patients?” enquires Sherlock gently, undecided whether John would appreciate Sherlock sitting down next to him or simply leaving him in peace. It’s yet another situation in which Sherlock curses his lack of experience and knowledge of proper relationship etiquette. He is always torn between doing too much or too little. Thankfully, John seems to sense his uncertainty and pats the cushion next to him.

“Stressful everything. The patients were idiotic, most of them. Flu season is approaching, and many simply won’t understand that prescribing antibiotics against simple colds wouldn’t work. Traffic was a nightmare, again. Was almost run over by a lorry turning left without looking, even though I kept my distance and everything. And then I narrowly avoided collision with a car door because some arsehole had parked his city tank on the cycle lane and decided to open his door just when I was riding past. Drove a fucking American pick-up truck and everything. In London. I mean ...” John growls and waves his hand in an angry gesture at the universe in general and irresponsible drivers and owners of huge, wasteful cars in particular.

Sherlock sits down next to him, wondering whether complaints about John’s day will once again blow up into a diatribe about the menace of cars in inner cities, leading to air pollution, leading to the failures of government, leading to Brexit, leading to the USA and the possibility of the Americans electing a fraud and con man as their next president.

“Would you like more tea?” asks Sherlock to forestall said diatribe, knowing that complaining about the state of the world will do little to actually improve John’s mood, whereas tea will.

John turns his head to him, one corner of his mouth lifting in a weary smile. “You’re trying to distract me from venting, aren’t you?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Is it working?”

“Let’s try the tea. If it isn’t working, you may want to try something else.”

“Oh? And what would that be?” asks Sherlock coyly.

John grins. “Takeaway, for once. We haven’t had Chinese in a while. And perhaps some cuddling. Wouldn’t mind a quick – or not so quick – snog, too, if you’re amenable.”

Sherlock smiles, glad that John’s mood seems to have lifted already. “I think that can be arranged.”

**– <o>–**

To Sherlock’s regret, snogging doesn’t happen. They spend time sitting on the sofa after ordering takeaway and waiting for the delivery to arrive, with him leaning again John’s outstretched arm and John playing absently with Sherlock’s curls. Usually, Sherlock hates when people touch his hair. Going to the barber as a child was worse than going to the dentist. It took him a while to get used to this kind of touch from John – any kind of touch, really. But now he actually appreciates it. It’s both soothing and exciting, leaving him with a gentle tingling sensation, particularly when John lightly scratches his scalp, too.

John seems absent, though, lost in his own head. Tired, too. At one point, the hair-stroking stops. Sherlock feels the weight of John’s head settle on his shoulder. His heart misses a beat, and he smiles. John’s proximity still does this to him, catches him by surprise and causes his body to react in interesting and somewhat frightening ways. Sherlock shifts slightly so that John can rest more comfortably against him. 221B is quiet but for the occasional creak of the old house and noises of cars or pedestrians passing outside. About an hour ago, Mrs. Hudson left to visit Mrs. Turner next door. Darkness has fallen, the streetlamps are casting the living room into warm, orange hues. The fire in the fireplace has almost burned down, but Sherlock is too comfortable and too engrossed in studying dozing John next to him to do anything about it.

The ring of the doorbell announcing the arrival of their food comes far too soon for Sherlock’s liking. John startles awake, gazes at him bleary-eyed and smiles sheepishly before running both hands over his face and through his hair. Sherlock draws his dressing gown more tightly around himself and goes to get the food.

Even over dinner, John doesn’t speak much, sitting opposite Sherlock and picking at his food in a way that belies his previous claims of being famished. Sherlock ends up eating almost twice as much as John, which is a strange reversal of their usual habits and slightly worrying. A few times, Sherlock utters encouragements, trying to entice John to eat, but to little avail.

John remains sitting at the kitchen table staring ahead of him while Sherlock clears away their plates and takeaway containers. “More tea?” he asks.

John jumps a little in his chair, clearly pulled out of some reverie. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Sherlock watches him. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly. It’s plain to see, even for him who often finds it difficult to gauge and clearly label human emotion, that this is not the case. He might even take a stab at what’s troubling John. He knows John won’t admit it, though. They have become better at talking, true, but nevertheless they’re still shit at opening up to the other – John more so than Sherlock, surprisingly.

John lifts his shoulders in a weary shrug. “Just tired,” he lies.

“John—”

John raises a hand to forestall Sherlock. “I appreciate your concern. But just ... leave it. It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not ‘fine’, John. I want to help. You know I’m not good with these things, being still unfamiliar with all these rules and expectations. So please, tell me what to do.”

John laughs bitterly. “I’m shit at this, too. And there’s nothing you can do. But cheers for trying. I’ll ... I think I just need some rest.”

“Crap telly?” suggests Sherlock in a last ditch attempt to cheer him up.

John shakes his head, running a hand over his eyes. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

Sherlock feels his lips narrow. “Upstairs?”

“Yes. Sorry if you had other plans. I just ...” He shrugs again, helplessly.

Sherlock swallows. “Okay.”

Slowly and laboriously, John gets to his feet, the chair scraping over the kitchen floor. “I’ll be in a better mood tomorrow, I promise. And again, it’s not because of you or anything you did – or didn’t do. You’ve been brilliant lately, trying to accommodate so many of my weird moods.” John reaches out and runs a gentle hand down Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock follows the hand with his eyes and nods. “Okay. Just ... tell me, if you need anything.”

“I will. Thank you, love.” He smiles faintly. “You know, a good case would be great. Something weird and fascinating. A distraction. Yeah, that’s what I need. Something other than cold-riddled patients and flu shots and idiot motorists. I’m going to take the next few days off work, anyway, so I’ll be at your disposal.

Sherlock laughs softly. “What an interesting reversal of roles, don’t you think? Me nagging you to eat, and now you begging me to find a case?”

“Yes. I’m sure your inbox is overflowing with unread mails again.”

“I’ll have a look.”

**– <o>–**

John is right about Sherlock’s inbox: it currently contains thirty-two unread emails. During the aftermath of his abduction and the ensuing case resulting from it, Sherlock mostly neglected traffic from his website. Now he clicks through his inbox sitting on the sofa and listening to sounds from John’s room upstairs, trying to deduce what John is doing – without success. About two thirds of the messages Sherlock deletes as spam right away. Not all of them are spam, strictly speaking, but when people can’t even be bothered to spell words such as ‘you’ correctly, abbreviating it to a single letter, they and their petty little problems are definitely not worth his time. _Is there such a thing as a minus three for cases? I should probably extend the scale into negative numbers to account for the utter gall and idiocy of some of these ‘cases’._

A few sound interesting enough, though. Two he manages to solve on the spot, replying with – for Sherlock – gently worded counsel in one instance (a ‘vanished’ first draft of a bestselling novel’s sequel – petty family feud: the sister deleted the files) and the blunt advice of “ditch the arsehole” in the other (a man abusing his spouse’s generosity while entertaining himself elsewhere). Both times he has to smile to himself, remembering Tiffany’s words about him being a witch who helps people help themselves. Because she is right: these aren’t really criminal cases, these are people in need of an outside opinion, of support or a stern talking to. In a way, Sherlock is as much an Agony Aunt as old Ellie down in Sussex.

Three cases catch his interest in particular. On the fence outside the Foundling Museum, Tracey Emin’s mitten sculpture has probably been stolen and replaced with a copy. One of the cleaners noticed that the mitten suddenly looked different, but officials denied it. Trying to prove her point, the cleaner contacted Sherlock. A tour guide has asked for Sherlock’s assistance with clearing up a series of freak accidents at several Jack the Ripper Walking Tours over in Whitechapel. And then there’s a case up north near Ambleside concerning a deceased fell runner found on the fells, with police ruling the death an accident but family and friends convinced it was murder. Sherlock reads this particular email three times, smiling slightly to himself. It’s perfect: far enough away to get John and him out of the city, in an area John claims he loved as a child but hasn’t visited since ...

**– <o>–**

A short while later, armed with a cup of tea made just the way John likes it, Sherlock climbs the stairs to John’s room. To his surprise, the door is open. John is sitting on his bed with his back to the door, the light of his bedside lamp casting his hunched over silhouette in warm light. He must have heard Sherlock’s footsteps on the stairs or smelled the tea but doesn’t react but for a slow release of breath. His arms are angled, his head is bowed – he must be holding something in his hands and is gazing at it. Sherlock can’t see it from where he is standing, but even without a clear visual cue, he knows his deduction is right: John is staring at the – probably still unopened – envelope Mycroft provided, the envelope containing information about John’s ‘disappeared’ daughter and probably her mother.

Sherlock hesitates in the doorway, uncertain of his welcome. John didn’t lock or even close the door – not that either would have prevented Sherlock’s entry had he been determined. Sherlock _has_ tried to be more mindful of John’s privacy and his mood lately, but still finds that in many situations, social niceties and expectations are either too tedious or simply superfluous or counterproductive to observe, so he doesn’t bother. But John must have known that sooner or later, he’d come up to his room, driven by curiosity and determination to force John out of his shell of self-imposed misery.

John sighs again, his shoulders lifting incrementally and falling as though a heavy weight is resting on them. He doesn’t turn, though, and doesn’t move to put away the envelope. “Found a case, then?”

“Yes. Most emails in my inbox were either spam or cases so simple I solved them on the spot or deleted them as insults to my intelligence. Three were of interest, though. You have the choice between a stolen sculpture in Bloomsbury, Jack the Ripper Tour accidents in Whitechapel, or a potential murder in the Lake District.”

John sits up straighter at the last word and half turns to gaze at Sherlock over his shoulder. “Whereabouts in the Lakes?”

“Dovedale, somewhere between Ambleside and Glenridding. Or, to use the classification by Alfred Wainwright, in the Eastern Fells.”

John turns more fully to Sherlock and smiles at him, his face cracking up into hundreds of lines. It’s the most genuine, heart-felt smile Sherlock has seen from him in a while and it warms his heart.

“You know about Wainwright? Seriously?”

Sherlock jerks up his chin with pretended offense. “I know a lot of things, John. I’m a genius, after all,” he replies with a wink, glad that they are in teasing territory.

“You deleted the solar system, _Star Wars,_ most of current politics, and the PIN of your bloody debit card, Sherlock.”

“Yes, to make space for other things. Very effective, my system, as you know. Keeps my mind palace tidy. As for the pin, for most purchases you don’t even need it anymore. And yes, I know who Wainwright was. Actually, as a boy—”

“Don’t tell me you learned the names of all 214 fells in the Lake District which are now counted as ‘Wainwrights’ by heart.”

Sherlock feels himself blush. “Not just the names ...,” he mutters, and John laughs. He pats the mattress next to him. “Come on, sit down, genius, and tell me about that case in the Lakes. The season might not be ideal for fell walking and hiking – snow is not unheard of up there at this time of year – but it would be great to get out of the city for a bit. Did us good last time, too, didn’t it?”

Sherlock nods, knowing he is referring to their trip down to Sussex to help find Tiffany, a trip which ultimately made them confess their feelings to each other and move their platonic relationship to whatever they have now. Walking around the bed, he hands John his tea which the other accepts with a warm smile while setting aside the envelope.

Sherlock sits down next to John, clears his throat. “You still haven’t opened it.”

John blows on his tea, watching the curling steam for a long time before inclining his head in a nod. “Never seemed the right time, really. With your injury, and the case, and my work, and ...” He draws a deep breath, swallows, takes a careful sip of his tea, before sitting up straighter and gazing at Sherlock.

“To be honest, I’m surprised you didn’t open it for a peek.”

“Why would I do that?”

John snorts, bumps Sherlock’s shoulder. “Because you’re incurably nosy, disregard other people’s personal space virtually all the time, and usually consider my possessions yours – while at the same time being very generous with yours, I grant you that.”

Sherlock smiles lightly. John really knows him well. “I admit I was tempted. I even tried to find it, but you hid it well.”

“Actually, I didn’t. It was among the stack of receipts and papers I collect for my taxes. But of course you wouldn’t have looked there, would you? Guess it’s another thing you deleted, taxes.”

“Not deleted but rather wilfully ignored most of my life,” admits Sherlock. “I wouldn’t have opened the envelope without your permission. I just wanted to know whether you had looked inside.” He doesn’t tell John about his increasing worry about John’s mental wellbeing, hoping that somehow, John would interpret his actions correctly.

John nods to himself. “What about your own envelope, then, the one nailed to the mantelpiece with your knife? The one about your childhood friend Jan? Have _you_ had a peek inside yet?”

Sherlock feels a stab at the mention of Jan. John is stalling, trying to detract Sherlock’s attention from having to talk about the complicated situation with his daughter and, more importantly, having to give voice to his thoughts and feelings brought on by the situation. As is Sherlock himself, John must be torn in two between wanting to learn about his daughter’s whereabouts (and being reminded of their separation and John’s inability to see her once again), and the blissful ignorance of simply not opening the envelope. Sherlock is in a similar situation with the riddle of his childhood friend: the information about Jan compiled by Mycroft’s minions could finally answer the question whether Jan was a real boy or a figment of Sherlock’s imagination – or one of the Faerie, even, if that’s at all possible. But other than John, Sherlock has almost made up his mind, and gazing at the man next to him now, he feels his resolve harden.

“I don’t plan to peek. I’m going to burn the envelope later today.”

John looks up in surprise. “Really? Why? It’s sat there for weeks now.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Yes. When I asked Mycroft to find out what he could about the strange encounter I had in the summer of 1987, I thought I needed to know the truth – cold, hard facts, as with all my cases. But by now, I’m no longer sure I require them. What you said back in Sussex ... it resonated with me. I’ve been thinking about it a lot since.”

“What did I say?”

“That the only thing that matters is that Jan was real to me. He was. Always will be. Whatever is in that envelope I don’t need to know. I don’t need proof that he was human.”

John gazes at him for a long time, his expression unreadable. At length he nods. “Yes, makes sense.” His face turns sad, he runs a slow hand through hair and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Wish it were as easy for me.”

Sherlock glances at the envelope. “Get it over with, perhaps?” he suggests. “Like ripping off a plaster?”

John makes a soft sound that may have been a scoff or snort. “Yeah, I’d do that if I knew I had enough bandages to stem the blood afterwards.” He sighs dejectedly, then frowns. “The whole situation is as shit as it could possibly get. I don’t know what to do, and nobody can help me. Neither Ella, nor my sister – who’s really been trying to get her shit together and even help me – nor even you, and I know you yearn to, and I appreciate that you do. But this is something I have to come to terms with on my own.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why do you have to solve it on your own?”

John’s frown deepens. “Because she’s my daughter, and I don’t even know her name, and what’s worse, I don’t know ...,” he swallows, makes an uncertain gesture. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I want to be a good dad, not a shit one like my own. But how can I, like this? How—?”

He hangs his head, running his hand over his eyes. Sherlock scoots closer so that their shoulders are touching. He feels out of his depth sailing these precarious waters of deep emotion. It’s scary. He has a hunch that John’s problem with this entire situation lies even deeper. Neither John nor Mary seemed ready to embrace parenthood when Sherlock deduced her pregnancy during their wedding. The announcement came as a shock more than a pleasant surprise. He knows John used to entertain vague ideas of having children of his own, but doubts the couple ever had any concrete plans to produce offspring. Therefore, John seems caught between an ideal he devised for himself – being a good, present father – and the creeping realisation that he might not even have wanted a child in the first place, the situation now complicated by the fact that said child exists, but somewhere secret and potentially far away for her and Mary’s (and ultimately John’s) safety.

John draws a ragged breath and scowls angrily at the offending envelope. “Perhaps I should just burn it, too,” he rasps, “and accept she’s gone.” He smiles grimly. “Perhaps it contains empty pages, anyway, or a bloody file that’s already self-destructed because I waited too long. Bloody hell, Sherlock, this is such a fucking mess of a situation.”

“I know. And I wish I could help you, John.”

John leans closer to him and briefly rests his head on his shoulder. Sherlock feels his heart miss a beat as warmth floods his body. These unexpected displays of affection still catch him by surprise every time. He snakes an arm round John’s hunched shoulders and draws him close, dropping a kiss on his hair.

“Thank you, love,” mutters John.

They stay like this for a moment, before John sniffs softly, lifts his head off Sherlock’s shoulder and clears his throat. “Okay ... murder in the Lakes, wasn’t it? Tell me more.”

([Illustration](http://anke.edoras-art.de/images/sherlock_fanfic/easy_scrambling/sherlock_easy-scrambling_chapter1_2.jpg))

**Author's Note:**

> Updates about this one and my other fics can be found at my tumblr and twitter (I’m khorazir on both).


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